


Transparent

by exbex



Series: Eccentricities by Osmosis [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Body Image, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two conversations that Mycroft didn't see coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transparent

It has been too long since Mycroft has been able to fully enjoy the high quality of his bed and sheets, and it has even been too long since he’s been able to enjoy the sight of one naked John Watson. Hence, the two bedside lamps are on, just bright enough to illuminate the two of them.

It helps that Mycroft doesn’t feel the ridiculous need to clench his stomach muscles. Whether this is because he’s finally gained the upper hand in his ever-present battle with an expanding waistline, or whether it’s simply the stage of their relationship, he isn’t sure. He would entertain the very real probability that it’s simply because John has a peculiar effect on him, but his obstinacy has served him well on more than one occasion.

It crumbles, however, when John pulls just out of his reach. Mycroft frowns, his brow furrowing intensely.

John remedies the situation quickly. “I’ve noticed, you know.” 

There’s no need for Mycroft to ask for clarity, just as there’s no need for his brain to remind him that these are the words he’s been aching for, wishing that John would notice and appreciate. His brain very irritatingly does so anyway. 

“Oh?” Mycroft says, and promptly feels like an idiot, and he wants to reach over and switch the lamps off.

“I’m enjoying it,” John replies, and Mycroft is grateful, as he has constantly been before, that Watsons don’t mince words. “And I’ll be enjoying it as long as it doesn’t …interfere between us.” John pauses, and the shift of his eyes tells Mycroft that he’s searching for words. “You bloody ever-gorgeous bastard,” he finally finishes, awkwardly.

“I’ll be sure that no interlopers come between us,” Mycroft replies, and the conversation is relegated to the back of his brain, to be pulled out at opportune times in the future, as Mycroft is promptly distracted by an armful of small but solid Watson.

**

Logically, Sherlock Holmes should look less incongruous standing in the Diogenes Club than John Watson ever does, but Mycroft supposes that Sherlock and John in The Diogenes Club are much like Sherlock and John in Mycroft’s life: while the former will never fit properly no matter how much he looks the part, bears similarities to his brother, and how many hours Mycroft has spent trying to carve a place for him, the latter deceptively changes Mycroft’s life like the tides change the shoreline.

Regardless, Sherlock is standing in the middle of the one room where he can disrupt Mycroft’s tangled thoughts with words. “For the number of years you’ve been alive,” he says as he presents a forty-year-old bottle of Glenfiddich. He rolls his eyes. “No, it’s not too much; just take it.”

“You misread me Sherlock,” Mycroft answers at the same time that he reaches for the bottle. “I’m simply surprised that you remember.” He finally meets his brother’s eyes directly. “We don’t do this.”

“We didn’t,” Sherlock replies. “But some things have become abundantly clear in the last two years.

Mycroft knows, without asking, what Sherlock means, knows that he’s reached his conclusions from many long months spent tracking down Moriarty’s people, from the recent development of his relationship with Greg Lestrade (a relationship that has been, frankly, years overdue). But he has reached a point in his life when he can admit to himself that he needs to hear Sherlock say it.

“Such as?”

It is rare that Sherlock’s words don’t come to him easily, and one should always pay attention in those moments. “Such as the fact that anyone can see what you mean to John.”

Mycroft waits. Sherlock hesitates. “Moriarty wasn’t as perceptive as he fancied himself. There should have been four.” Sherlock doesn’t wait for a response, just places his hands inside the pockets of his coat and turns to leave. “Don’t work late tonight,” he says over his shoulder. “John hasn’t forgotten.”

Mycroft wants to curse Sherlock’s deductive skills momentarily; mortified that he’s spent entirely too much time today like a besotted teenager, waiting for his phone to give him a sign that John remembered the date. Instead he allows himself to examine the thin white ribbon tied carefully around the neck of the bottle.


End file.
